


Saving for a rainy day

by OhAine



Series: The Dance [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comma Abuse, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Grown ups in love doing what grown ups in love do, Is that a real thing?, Minor Character Death, Non Explicit, Off page violence, Please read notes for warnings, Sherlolly - Freeform, fluffy angst?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 19:51:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3867697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhAine/pseuds/OhAine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She sensed it in the air the same way animals can sometimes sense a storm coming – something heavy and thick was making its presence known, and her inability to obey the instinct to protect herself and to find shelter was frightening her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saving for a rainy day

**Author's Note:**

> I hate tags that ruin the story so I haven't done that here, but if you have pregnancy, fertility or any baby / child related issues you may want to sit this one out.
> 
> It goes without saying, I own nothing - Brealey, Cumberbatch (especially his curls), Gatiss, Moffat, Conan Doyle and 10,000 Maniacs own most of it, and I'm sure I've absorbed stuff from other places too.
> 
> Title is from Rainy Day by 10,000 Maniacs.
> 
> Never written anything, ever, before. Virgin aboard, please be gentle. Un beta'd, all mistakes, over use of punctuation, and cheesy sentiments are mine.
> 
> Dedicated to my beautiful (formerly curly haired) husband, and inspired by our conversation over dinner on Valentine's day 2015. Love you baby.

_“Oh if I were you, defiant you_

_Alone upon a troubled way_

_Oh, I would send my heart to you_

_To save it for a rainy day.”_

 

 

It– _something_ – had been coming for days. Nine of them, to be precise.  She sensed it in the air the same way animals can sometimes sense a storm coming – something heavy and thick was making its presence known, and her inability to obey the instinct to protect herself and to find shelter was frightening her.  They’d been sleeping together for months. Oh not a relationship – he was clear about that, she wasn’t his girlfriend and nobody knew about them – not even John.  But they’d shared a bed and their loneliness; they made each other laugh, talked in the dark of his bedroom late at night about his cases and her work, ate Chinese food at one in the morning, and had the best sex Molly had ever had in her life.  She was – _they_ were – happy.  Not an arrangement everyone would choose, but it had been good for them.

Nine nights ago it had changed.  He had taken her to bed, kissed her, undressed her and then made love to her.  After months of sex, this, _this **,**_ was making love.  Gently and with almost reverence he’d traced his lips over every part of her body, ran his fingers through her hair over and over again, consumed her as though she was his seven percent solution, kissed her like she was oxygen and looked at her as though he’d seen her, truly seen her, for the first time, the pieces of the case finally falling together. His hands never left her body and his eyes never left her face. The realisation that this time was so completely different from all the times before had stunned her, and she knew if she was stunned then Sherlock, beautiful, ridiculous and fragile Sherlock, would be… something…something else.  Afterwards, he’d pulled her flush to his chest, wrapped his arms around her and with her head tucked under his chin she’d fallen asleep, only to be woken an hour later, alone in bed with the sound of his violin permeating every part of her.

She’d slept at Baker Street every night since but he hadn’t once gone to her. He’d spent each of the last nine nights not talking, not eating, not sleeping and playing his violin for hours on end.  But tonight when she arrived at Baker Street he’d extended his hand in a silent invitation, led her to his bedroom and made love to her again.

She was staring at him, his beautiful curls and long eyelashes leaving shadows on his face, barely visible in the moonlight that crept around the bedroom curtains – taking him in, trying to memorise every part of him when, for the first time in over a week, he spoke to her. 

“You and I, this, this _thing_ between us, I - it can’t continue.  I’m sorry Molly.  Please. Forgive me.”

His kaleidoscopic eyes glistened in the moonlight as he stared at her.

She sat up, drawing her knees and the bed sheet to her chest – it was a defensive posture she knew, but she hid nothing from him, she showed her cards every time, trusted him enough to let him see honesty in her actions, he would be able to read her anyway, so it could never cost her anything to give it to him freely. She wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her chin there.

“Can you tell me why?”

“You – You…” He took a deep, frustrated breath. “It’s not something you’d understand.”

“Try me.”

“Molly please don’t make this difficult.  I have reasons. Good reasons.  Please just accept my word, it’s just better -”

“No Sherlock.  I’ll accept what you have to say, I promise, but you can’t just throw me out at 3a.m. without at least explaining.”

“I’m not throwing you -”

Firmly she repeated, “Try me.”

He pulled himself up to sit beside her, and ran his fingers quickly through his hair.  A deep breath, and he impaled himself on his own sword.

“I’m no idiot Molly.  I know what it takes to maintain this – this type of...”

“Relationship?” She offered.

He frowned at her, “…arrangement…and I cannot give that to you. You’re physically attracted to me now but that won’t maintain your interest in the long term, your interest in me has its foundations in a years old infatuation and I have other qualities that will soon lessen my appeal to you. I’m uncommunicative - I don’t talk for days on end, I bore easily, I have enemies who would do you harm, ** _I_** could do you harm, I’m not a safe man to be near, I will take from you until you have nothing  left to give. I care for you enough to not to want that for you.”  Then quietly but with conviction, “I’m a cold man Molly, a sociopath, I’m not capable of the kind of affection that you need.  Believe me Molly, it’s a kindness to release you from this now before it all goes to hell.”  It couldn’t last; he’d spent the last nine days puzzling it out. 

But so had she.

“So it’s the old cliché. “ _It’s not you, it’s me_ ” yeah?”

“That’s an over simplification Molly. But basically. Yes.” He said scrubbing his face in his hands.

“So in the interest of clarity and completeness, you don’t have a problem with anything I’m doing?”

“No, but that’s hardly the point.”

As gently as she could she reached out to touch his hand, and pulled it to her lips, softly kissing his palm and then the pulse point on his wrist.  He relaxed under her touch, and dipped his eyes to where their hands met, exhaling shakily. 

“Well it sort of is the point Sherlock, because I know exactly who you are and I want you anyway.”

“Oh God Molly, that type of trite and idiotic statement is beneath your intelligence, we’re going to go around in circles if you’re going to employ those tactics.” He sounded tired, confused.

“I _do_ know who you are.  You’re not a cold man Sherlock,” she said softly, “I know you like to think of yourself that way, but it’s just not true.  You have more passion in your heart than anyone I’ve ever known, it’s not ice running through your veins, it’s – it’s lava. You burn with such intensity that you’re almost on fire, and…” Oh God, deep breath, be gentle, “…you seem to forget sometimes that I’m a doctor, I can spot a self-diagnosis a mile off – no medical professional would have diagnosed you as a ‘high functioning sociopath’ because that particular condition doesn’t actually exist.  And before you say it, you’re not a regular sociopath either, my psych rotation was a decade ago I know, but I’m going to play the medical degree card here. So.  It’s a defence mechanism then, part of your armour.

To say you aren’t capable of love, Oh Sherlock, you love more deeply than anyone I’ve ever known.  You love John so, so much, Mary, Mycroft,” she held up her hand when he drew a breath, “don’t you dare deny that you love your brother Sherlock. Mrs Hudson, your Mum and Dad.  Our son.”

Her hold on his hand tightened, and he leaned into her, pressing his lips against her shoulder.

____________________

It had happened a few months after he left London.  One of Mycroft’s people had shown up in the middle of an autopsy to say that her medical services were required urgently by Mr Holmes.  She didn’t ask any questions, just found someone quickly to cover her – family emergency she said – and ran to the waiting car.  A few hours later she stepped off a private plane at a small airport in Italy, no passport necessary, and was taken to the medical facility where an ashen faced Mycroft Holmes waited by his brothers bedside.  This wasn’t about her medical training; she knew as soon as she saw Sherlock’s condition that Mycroft had needed her only because he couldn’t face mourning his brother alone.  He'd been captured by God knows who and when beating him to death hadn’t gone to plan they’d shot him.  It took Mycroft two days to find him, and by then he’d lost so much blood, that no one thought he’d make it.

But he did. 

Slowly but surely he recovered, and Molly stayed.  Four weeks later he was released into her care, staying in a safe house that Mycroft had arranged.  Gratitude for the life that had been saved and the sheer joy of seeing him again, she kissed him and he’d kissed back.  They’d spent a hand full of nights together before he was well enough to leave, and she wasn’t foolish enough to think it was anything more than the recklessness behaviour that happens for a brief time after surviving a trauma.  It wasn’t real, it wasn’t love.  But _God_ , she didn’t care, he was alive and for a few joyful hours he was hers.

A month after returning to London she discovered she was pregnant.  Confused and emotional she called Mycroft, and the decision was made to keep it from Sherlock for now.  They – he - would be safer that way.  Mycroft would see to it that Sherlock would be back in London before her due date. 

Six months later she gave birth, prematurely, to their son.  He didn’t survive delivery.  When Molly woke the next day in her hospital room, Mycroft was sitting in the seat he’d occupied all night.  He’d made funeral arrangements and had his people searching for Sherlock.  He was found four days later and was brought home the day of the funeral service.  The small party of five stood around the tiny grave next to the chapel on the Holmes family estate, their son would be buried with his ancestors.  Molly had to name him by herself, and she chose the names of the men Sherlock loved the most.  The head stone bore a single date and just six words “John Mycroft Holmes, Born an Angel.”

Sherlock stood with her at the grave side, held her hand tightly, and when they were finally alone they cried in each other’s arms.  She didn’t see Sherlock again until he came back to London for good.  They moved on with their lives separately.    

That had been two years ago now, but still, once a year the same five people gathered at the estate to honour the memory of a life that never was.

____________________

Trying to keep her voice steady, Molly said “It’s true you don’t talk if you’re wrapped up in something but that doesn’t mean you don’t communicate.”

At that he looked up to her face.

“Didn’t know you had a tell, did you? You’ve got more than one but I can read your mood and what you’re thinking from your playing alone.  I know you’re thinking about little John when you play the lullaby, and I know you composed it yourself too.  You play that at least once a week, always at dawn; I’ve always wondered if that’s the time of day you found out.  About him I mean.”

Another deep, steadying breath.  Both lovers this time.

“Since the night you realised you were in love with me, and denying that you do in fact love me would be an insult to both our intelligence, you’ve been playing Bach – which is your “ _I’ve got a puzzle to solve_ ” composer of choice – alternating with the Leonard Cohen song that was playing when we danced together for the first time, and something you composed yourself about three weeks ago, which I’m guessing is when your feelings started to demand your attention.

Oh, and when you scrape at the violin you’re irritated, usually with Mycroft.

Did I get any of that wrong?”

He shook his head but didn’t speak, soft curls tickled her shoulder.  She dropped her knees and pushed her self down the bed, just enough that she was now level with his chest.  Wrapping her arms around him she kissed his collar bone softly, and when he bent to kiss the top of her head she felt his tears fall on to her face.

“Yes there are people who would harm us, that’s true whether we’re together or not.  You say that you’ll take everything from me. Good.  It’s yours anyway, I’m giving it to you – I want you to take it.”

He was running one hand through her hair now, and with the other he pulled her hand up to kiss the tips of her fingers.  He dipped his head to kiss her lips.

“I was infatuated with you for years, and you’re right that did fade.  What I feel now is love Sherlock, time zero started for me around the same time it started for you, what I feel now is based on the reality of us, not the fantasy. 

I’m not going to deny the physical attraction, well spotted, nice deduction.”

He laughed at that, a deep vibration ran through his body to hers, he pulled her closer.

“I will concede you had one valid point though.”

“Oh?” His voice was thick, wet.

“You bore too easily, but hey, no one’s perfect.”

He laughed again, and she smiled against his skin.

“I know this isn’t easy for you Sherlock.  I’m not trying to make light of it, but would it help if I said I was scared too? That everyone who falls in love thinks that they can’t possibly be lucky enough to get what they want, that they’ll lose the thing that’s making them happy?”

“Honestly? I don’t know if it does help.” Maybe, maybe not.  He was starting to relax into the pillows beneath them.

She sat up again, took his face in her hands and looked at him in the now early morning light.  God he was beautiful, but to see only the physical beauty was to not see him at all, his mind and his heart were glorious. 

“So what happens now? Do you still want me to go?”

“No. No. But things can’t stay the same.” He kissed her forehead.

“I want to take John with us to visit the boy who was named for him.  I should have done it a long time ago. He should know that about me, about us.  He should know the honour you paid him. ”

Molly’s heart clenched and her eyes stung.

“Mary too. 

And I did wonder if you’d like to have dinner with me? In a restaurant I mean, not take away on the couch at bed time.”

“You mean you want to take me on a date?” She crinkled her nose in mock disgust.

“Well that what ‘ _boyfriends_ ’ do, isn’t it?” he said reflecting her mockery.

“Hmmm, okay you’re on, but I get to choose the restaurant.  I hear you can always tell a good restaurant by the bottom third of the door handle.”

“Don’t be an idiot Molly," he smiled genuinely as he pulled her to him,  "that only works for Chinese restaurants.”

 

* * *

 

 

This story is now expanded in a prequel [Take me and erase me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3974791) !!

 


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